


By The Blood

by hanyou_elf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bloodplay, Gen, Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-30
Updated: 2011-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-28 13:05:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanyou_elf/pseuds/hanyou_elf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You clench your eyes shut, throw your head back and let out a guttural scream as Castiel leans over you and whispers in your ear: "You are saved."</p>
            </blockquote>





	By The Blood

You watch that beautiful creature coming toward you.  All light and purity and innocence and everything good in the world above, everything you've forsaken to take your new master's teachings.  You're Alastair's pet.  And you're good at what you do.  You've got a lot of fodder for encouragement.  You could kill with your mind, if you'd like, while you're in Hell.  But to do so, becoming the kind of person who kills with his mind, is the last thing you want to do.  It's that final step to shedding your humanity.  You'll lose every single thing that you've got left, and you'll become Alastair's demon.

But _this_ approaching you in the depths of Hell is beautiful.  It is everything you'd always believed Sam to possess: peace and beauty and purity and safety.  You know he's not innocent.  You know he's got his faults and his failings, but you have always seen him as the better of the Winchester family. 

"Dean Winchester," this creature of light murmurs softly.  It's voice is soft.  Sends shivers shuddering down your spine.  It's like, James Hetfield calling your name in the middle of a crowded arena.  Pleasure spikes through you, starting low in the pit of your stomach.  And it's amazing.  But you don't want to take part of this pleasure.  Because surely it's just another way to make you fall further.  To ruin you beyond recognition.

"What?"

"I have come to free you."

You scoff.  How in the Hell is that possible?  You'd traded yourself for this.  You'd given your humanity and your soul to save your brother.  This, Hell, this was your reward.

"You do not belong here," the creature of light murmurs softly.  "You are a righteous man."

And that is when you really do laugh.  Because you have never been a righteous man.  You've been a whore.  You've been a glutton.  You've killed and torn people apart.  And in Hell, it is so much worse.  In Hell, your home sweet home, you've torn into their souls, seen their secrets and known them so very intimately.  And yet, without Alastair's less than gentle urging, you've ruined men.  You've completely ruined them.  You've torn they're souls apart and you've let yourself become the demonic puppet Alastair wanted of you.  You can't be righteous.  And you can't be saved.

"You must come with me."

"What for?  So you can save me?"  You roll your eyes.  You would have given everything you had left a mere decade ago for that promise.  Before you'd left the rack.  But now, it doesn't matter.  Now, you're Alastair's.  You are his.  And he owns you body and soul.  Painfully, bloodily.  He owns you.  You are Alastair's toy.  His slave and whore and puppet and toy.  Whatever he wants of you, you'll do.  And that includes this delicious bit of soul rendering that you've been up to since he freed you from the rack.

If there was one thing you'd learned, it was that in Hell, the demons didn't lie.  The truth was painful enough.  In Hell, the truth was enough to make a soul bleed from the ears and be destroyed. 

You scoff at the angel, amused at the idea of you being righteous.  That's more amusing to you than the souls you destroy on the rack- those pathetic souls that beg and plead for mercy and salvation and leniency.  They had no pride while they lived, they most certainly lacked it in Hell.

They scream and they beg and they rant.  They bargain with ruined soul, and you take perverse pleasure in destroying their hopes.  You enjoy the ruination of their weak souls.  You enjoy making them over in the image of your master.  But this angel is a different kind of challenge.  You want to bloody those pure white and deliciously bright wings.

You press yourself close to the hot light, that overwhelming brilliance and lick at the skin of it's neck.  There are no words to describe the sexuality, the powerful beauty of the angel.  But you want to defile it.  To break it.  The angel shivers in your arms, but it doesn't fight. 

You rock your hips forward, lining up against the angel hip to hip.  Your dick is hard and wanting, it craves satisfaction and you crave pain.  It doesn't have to be your own, either way, as long as there's pain and blood to ease the way, to color the radiant light so unnatural in this dark hole.

You'd always imagined Hell to be a pit of fire and brimstone, lit because of the hellfire.  You'd never fathomed the near absolute blackness of Hell, punctuated by the sharp and flaring splotches of red.  Strobe light in blood.

At least now you understand the complete blackness of demonic eyes.  No pupils to expand or dilate in changing light.  The angel's light is almost too much after so long in the black comfort of Hell.  You want to put it out.  So you'll break the angel, destroy it and put it's light out.

"What's your name?" you ask.  "You know mine, what the hell?  Tell me yours."

"I am Castiel.  I'm going to raise you from this Hell."

You laugh at the angel.  It's a disgustingly sweet thought, and you're sort of flattered the angel cares so very much, but you won't let it stop you.

"Castiel," you say, testing it on your lips, weighing the name of the angel you'll destroy.  "Castiel.  I'm going to tear the skin from your flesh and I'm going to ruin those pretty little wings.  You'll beg for me before I'm done."

"If I do not raise you first." 

It is a challenge, a dare, and you've never been able to resist a challenge.  Especially one that strong.  And when will you get the chance to tempt and test and destroy an angel?  It's now or never.

You smirk at the heavenly being and grind your hips forward.  Clothes in Hell are obsolete.  Alastair did away with your clothes the second day you were here.  He called it a gift, and you're inclined to believe him now.  Hell, you believed him after the first week.

Everything is designed to break you.  And your trip to Hell, it had all been coordinated by demons stronger than you'd ever dreamed of.  If these bastards made it top-side , well, that was a whole different kind of apocalypse. 

Alastair had been waiting for you when you woke up with a scream in your throat on the rack.  He worked you over, under, in, and out.  You felt pain in places you'd no idea could feel pain.  Until you climbed down and took up his razor.  At which point, he returned your insatiable sex drive.

This angel is different.  A new thing to covet.  And where better than to covet something than in Hell?

Your dick, hard and naked and wanting, slides along the apex of Castiel's legs.  You can't find the sex of the angel, no dick or pussy to tease and torment.  And of course, you have to tease it about the lack of anything.  Your dick is unforgiving as you thrust against it, a terrible imitation of what you'd prefer to be doing.  You'd prefer to be balls deep in the angel, to feel it's light from the inside, but without a hole, you've no luck.

Sighing, you bite into the angel's neck and pull.  Hard enough to darken a mouth print, but not to draw blood.  You'll have to make your own hole and fuck it until you're satisfied and the light has gone out of the body.

"No dick.  No pussy.  No asshole.  How am I gonna fuck you?" you growl against it's shoulder.  Fingers dark with stained blood and grime slide into Castiel's wings, pulling at pure feathers that are downy soft.  You dirty it just by looking at it.  But this is a challenge you want.  Power and lust and hate that you want.

"You will not get far," Castiel says softly.

A hand, soft and smooth and gentle and so very fucking warm and alien cups your cheek.  It moves in a soft caress, loving and painful in it's tenderness.  Your breath hitches at the touch of mercy.  At the softness.  You're in Hell, touches aren't supposed to be this.

You smirk, playing off your discomfort and uncertainty.  You're going to make this creature cry your name.  You're going to make it lose it's radiance and overwhelming beauty.  You want to move in it, to ruin it.

"So, I suppose I'll have to make a hole for me to get into you."

"Dean Winchester, you are forgiven for everything.  You are a righteous man and you will be saved," Castiel promises.  It's voice is soft, the cadence awkward and old and unusual.  You lick your lips and shiver at the passion behind it's words. 

"You've got the wrong Dean Winchester.  I'm not worth anything unless Alastair decided he needs a hole to fuck.  And I'm very good for that," you smile.  Hopefully, it is as bloody and as cold as you feel.

Your hands, permanently dyed red from the blood, trace the angel's body.  If you were going to give it a sex, it would be male.  Mainly because there are no breasts on it's chest- and no nipples, you note.  Your nails drag through the flesh covering the angel's bones, dragging brilliant blood to the surface.

The scent is sudden and overpowering.  It's fresh and open air.  It's carnival food, drifting on the breeze.  It's every moment you spent beside your small and broken family.  It's the smell of Sam's aftershave when he's fresh from the shower.  It's the heady mixture of dirt and sweat and _Sam_ when you would crowd into the backseat of your baby, hands deep in each other's pants.  It's heaven and it's temptation and you _want_ it.

You're confused.  Because how can it be so many things in so few drops?  The angel's blood reeks of _sin._   You're in Hell, why not?

Castiel doesn't react to it's blood being drawn.  The scent, so overpowering and perfect fills every other sense.  You want to slide your tongue through the crimson orbs bubbling to the surface, but restrain yourself.  Not yet.  You have to wait until there's a hole big enough to dip your tongue in to, so you can taste broken flesh, open vessels and if you're lucky, and it's you, of course you will be, you'll tease the muscles before you fuck it.

"Take my blood, Dean Winchester," Castiel encourages.

You blink up at it, confusion written all over your face, you're sure of it.  Demons never want to share their blood.  They guard the damned liquid jealously.  That's why it's become one of your favorite methods of torture.  You've developed a liking for the sulfuric-iron taste.  Disturbingly human and yet oh so corrupted.

You snort and laugh at the angel.  "You that kinky?"  Fingers dig into the half-moon shapes and pull as they slide down otherwise smooth and luminescent skin.  "Does the angel like to bleed?"  You bite it's shoulder hard enough to leave your mark, but not enough to draw blood.

"I am as I have always been.  But if you're doing this, Dean, then I would prefer to be done with it.  Do not tease what you do not understand."

"But Castiel," you say softly, faux innocence in your voice.  "You're here in my home.  You have no power.  All you can do is wait for the fall."

"If that is your belief," Castiel acquiesces.

You don't bother to argue.  You're right.  There's no other reason for you to have an angel bound and waiting for your abusive attention.  And if it's wanting you to drink it's blood, maybe you shouldn't.

But it smells so good.

You lick your lips and smirk.  Kneeling, you grin up at the angel and dig your bloodied hands into it's hips, pulling it closer to you.  You lap at what could be considered it's stomach, artfully avoiding the blood that drips in rivulets down Castiel's torso.  And there's one so close.  You blink your eyes closed and trace the path up to the origin.

It's blood tastes as heavenly as it smells.  It's Sam when he's got the taste of your cum in his mouth as he tongue fucks you.  It's the perfect steak, with just a little tinge of pink in the middle.  It's cold whiskey on a dark night with Sam perched in your lap, rocking against you.

The angel's hand, which had been obediently beside it's hip, grasps your shoulder and it burns.  Oh God, it _burns_!  You clench your eyes shut, throw your head back and let out a guttural scream as Castiel leans over you and whispers in your ear: "You are saved."

The next time you open your eyes, it’s dark, and you’re _dressed._  


End file.
